How it came to pass that I, having had lands of my own, should find myself so circumstanced as to be fain to look after those of somebody else as factor or steward, is of no present moment; it is more to the point that, if this was the domain of the Master of Skelf, I liked it exceedingly little. The continual flurry and commotion of the waterfowl seemed to rouse in me a restlessness; and, remembering what Cardan had said of lands with a dark and fennish air, that they had the property of folding our thoughts back on themselves, I could only hope that I should not prove the worse bailiff for being acquainted with Cardan.
At first I mistook the man’s lantern for an ignis fatuus; but I heard a whistle and the panting of a dog, and he gave me good-evening. He was a tall fellow, with a sheepskin about him; he carried his lantern at the end of a long pole; and he told me, as he trotted by my side, that I was within the confines of Skelf Decoy. I eased the mare that he might keep pace with me.
“Ay, this is Skelf Decoy, and I tend it; they call me Ducky Watt, but they mean Decoy. It isn’t what it were, not for fish, sin’ they drained it, but there’s Friday-meat yet, and birds.... Ower th’ Wolds, are ye? Well, it’s a good air o’ th’ Wolds. They ha’ farmed part about here too, but it’s a black ear and thin crops; that’s th’ fogs.... Ay, we fish—hark! yon’s a pike—trout and eels and roach and pike—and tak’ birds for th’ markets. Ye’ll be a arable man; all’s carrs hereabouts; but I don’t doubt ye know all about Skelf-Mary.”
I told him that I had never been there before.
“Ay? H’m!... Ye’ll know nowt o’ th’ sea i’ these parts, then?”
I said that I did not.
“H’m!—well, this is how it is. Th’ sea’s taking it, as it’s ta’en Auburn and Hartburn and Ravenspur; and a two-three stops, but th’ most’s flitted months back; ye’ll see to-morrow.—Ye won’t ha’ heard o’ Buttevant-Mary neither: no. Well, they talk o’ bells chiming under th’ sea o’ still nights, and folks seen walking up and down th’ wharves and marts, and all that; I think them’s tales; but Kempery and Flaxton isn’t tales. Th’ Sheriff o’ Kingston, he’ll show ye th’ Court Rolls o’ Flaxton; and Kempery—I’ll show ye where Kempery is to-morrow, for ye’d best bide wi’ me to-night.—Ay, they took Flaxton Church to Windlesea i’ carts; and then there’s sea-marks....”
“In a word, the sea’s advancing?”
“Ay; sometimes just licking-like, and sometimes a dozen yards of a sudden; ye’ll see to-morrow.—And th’ sea doesn’t keep all it taks, neither. Ye’ll be a arable man, say; well, there’s a thousand acres o’ warp come up out o’ Humber, and wheat on it now; a foot-bridge joins it; but there’s men has seen deep keels, half a dozen on ’em, passing up yon same channel. That’s that side; and o’ this, as I tell ye, a farmer can go to bed i’ reaping-time and wake up wi’ a swath or two less to reap....”
He continued to tell me tales of lost villages, of broken houses with their chambers open to the winds, of wooden groynes that had been put up and abandoned, and a deal more well fitted to the hour and place. Suddenly I asked him about the Master of Skelf-Mary; and the light of the lantern shone on his knuckles as he thumbed his chin.